


Written

by MisplacedLonelyHeartsAd



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Flowers, Fluff, M/M, POV Mycroft Holmes, Reconciliation, holmescest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-11
Updated: 2014-04-11
Packaged: 2018-01-19 00:34:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,039
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1448764
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MisplacedLonelyHeartsAd/pseuds/MisplacedLonelyHeartsAd
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mycroft reflects on his relationship with Sherlock. Set right after the events of “Unwritten.”<br/>*****<br/>And there he was again, showing up on Sherlock’s doorstep with a bunch of <em>flowers</em>, for God’s sake. The English bluebells whose scent permeated Mycroft’s memories of <em>that day</em>, the day he had, against his better judgment for once in his life, reached for and grasped and clung to a dream.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Written

**Author's Note:**

> This is the sequel to ["Unwritten."](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1412965) It can stand alone but makes more sense if you read "Unwritten" first.

 

It had been a long day, and Mycroft was tired. On his way home, he wondered whether his visit to his brother’s flat that morning had been a mistake. Sherlock had not been in touch with him all day. Mycroft had been resolutely fighting the urge to call or text, and he cursed himself for the puerile emotions that Sherlock could still bring out in him. They were too old, he thought, to engage in that familiar on-again, off-again dance, which always began with a needlessly dramatic gesture or an embarrassingly fervent declaration, and ended with acrimony. Sometimes within hours.

_We have what you might call a difficult relationship_. Mycroft smiled at the recollection of these words. _John, you can’t imagine._ Their byzantine skirmishes and retreats occasionally baffled both Mycroft and Sherlock themselves, though neither would ever dream of admitting it.

_Thirteen months_ , Mycroft thought. _But who’s counting?_ It was a relatively long breach, though not nearly so long as the first one, which he tried to avoid thinking about. At the time, they had thought their estrangement permanent. They had been wrong. Mycroft was still embarrassed to admit that he had been the one to initiate the first reconciliation, and now he reddened a little as he recalled how he had wanted to weep with relief when his brother was back in his arms again. He hadn’t, of course, but Sherlock knew and never failed to remind him of it at inopportune moments.

And there he was again, showing up on Sherlock’s doorstep with a bunch of _flowers_ , for God’s sake. The English bluebells whose scent permeated Mycroft’s memories of _that day_ , the day he had, against his better judgment for once in his life, reached for and grasped and clung to a dream. His heart gave a little lurch. _Idiotic reminiscences_ , he berated himself. How was it possible, he wondered, that the thought of his brother could still make him giddy? Especially when he knew, from vivid past experience, that the feeling never lasted. It always disappeared.

But then it always returned.

_We both love to be dramatic,_ Mycroft thought ruefully. Mycroft, though, preferred quiet drama, and Sherlock the opposite. Mycroft fondly recalled the day that Sherlock had burst into his Whitehall office and thundered “I don’t hate you nearly so much as you think I do” in front of his assistant (not Anthea, but the one before her, whom Sherlock had been a little jealous of), which for Sherlock was tantamount to a declaration of eternal love.

Sherlock would, he knew, think his latest gesture stemmed from a jealousy of his new flatmate, but he was wrong. Mycroft liked John. _He’s a better brother for you than I am, Sherlock,_ he had told him, and he meant it. Sherlock had scoffed but Mycroft had caught the look of concern on his face and found it rather touching.

Mycroft’s townhouse was echoingly empty, as was usual at that time of evening. He stood in the foyer and closed his eyes briefly, resisting the urge, as he did every day, to throw his overcoat, briefcase, and umbrella into a heap on the floor. To give in, he believed, would begin his inexorable decline into ruin. He placed his coat on a hanger and stowed his umbrella away neatly before making his way to his study. The desk lamp was switched on and cast a warm dim light.

As he entered the room and set his briefcase on a chair, he caught sight of a pale object against the dark expanse of his desk. A tiny sprig of sky-blue forget-me-nots was affixed to the gleaming surface with a pushpin, atop a small folded scrap of paper. It took a bit of effort for Mycroft to pry up the firmly embedded pin from the dense, close-grained wood, and it left a deep hole.

He unfolded the bit of paper to disclose a line written in Sherlock’s ungainly handwriting:

_…it will never pass into nothingness; but still will keep a bower quiet for us…_

He smiled faintly, shaking his head. He found his phone and sent a text to his brother: _Keats. Really? Is your brain softening? —M._

He sighed as he dragged a fingernail over the hole the pushpin had made. Always so destructive. The scrap of paper he refolded and placed in his pocket. The sprig of minute flowers looked incongruous and frail as he picked it up. He traced the tiniest of circles around one of the blossoms. They were sturdier than they looked. He laid the flowers back on the desk where they would lie, unnoticed, until they withered, wan and blue.

Mycroft’s phone chirped. The message from his brother read: _Maybe it is._

He hesitated, then tapped out the words: _Come over._ He paused and briefly considered adding the word “please.” He hated feeling needy. It was a weakness his brother exploited time and again ( _All’s fair in love and war, Mycroft, especially when they’re the same thing_ ). His thumb was hovering over the send icon when he heard a soft rustle behind him. He wheeled around to find Sherlock standing in the doorway.

“I’m still here, you idiot,” Sherlock said. He leaned against the door frame, rubbing the corner of his eye with two fingers. The sight of him, squinting, barefoot, rumpled, his shirt untucked and askew and his hair even more disordered than usual, made Mycroft catch his breath in clear, undeniable delight.

“You waited for me,” Mycroft said in amazement. Sherlock’s little displays of affection always caught him off guard. He had been nearly undone by his brother’s fleetingly sweet smile that morning. He couldn’t even remember whether he had acknowledged John on his way out of the flat.

“I fell asleep on your bed,” said Sherlock, raking fretfully at his hair.

“Endymion, indeed,” Mycroft laughed. “You’re a joy,” he said impulsively. “Forever.”

His brother crossed his arms and gazed at him affectionately. “And you think _my_ brain’s softening?” he snorted. “You brought me flowers. _Those_ flowers. In front of John.”

“I’ve done stupider things,” Mycroft replied, “and not regretted them.” He smiled gently and held out his hand.

Sherlock returned the smile, stepped forward, and closed the distance between them, without hesitation.

 

**Author's Note:**

> A thing of beauty is a joy for ever:  
> Its loveliness increases; it will never  
> Pass into nothingness; but still will keep  
> A bower quiet for us, and a sleep  
> Full of sweet dreams, and health, and quiet breathing.  
> Therefore, on every morrow, are we wreathing  
> A flowery band to bind us to the earth,  
> Spite of despondence, of the inhuman dearth  
> Of noble natures, of the gloomy days,  
> Of all the unhealthy and o’er-darkened ways  
> Made for our searching: yes, in spite of all,  
> Some shape of beauty moves away the pall  
> From our dark spirits…
> 
> —John Keats, from _Endymion_
> 
> Interestingly enough, the former scientific name of the English bluebell was _Endymion non-scriptus_ , before it was changed to _Hyacinthoides non-scripta_.
> 
> In the “language of flowers” the forget-me-not is the emblem of “true love.” All together now: _awwww_.
> 
> *****
> 
> Thank you for reading. Feedback is loved and appreciated!  
> You can find me at: [amisplacedlonelyheartsad.tumblr.com](http://amisplacedlonelyheartsad.tumblr.com)


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